


Holding Still

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [15]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Friction Kink, Light BDSM, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Thighs, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, Wet & Messy, straight up porn, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: You're Geralt's good, prized plaything. If you want to make him happy, you must be still. You can do that, can't you?Shameless PWP one shot, just rude kinky nonsense.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 27
Kudos: 286





	Holding Still

“I rather like you like this, darling thing,” Geralt’s voice is velvet sex, the crush of rose petals beneath a pestle, “The balance, the sweet scent of your orgasm thrumming at the apex of your legs. Begging me. Have you any idea what you look like, hmm?”

You can only imagine. Around the ball-gag in your mouth, you moan. Another trickle of your arousal wets his soaked thigh, the spread-straddle of your cunt against the muscle of him obscene.

Your hands are bound at the small of your back. A loop of thin twine encircles each of your stiff nipples, pulled tight and sensitive in an adjustable knot. They are linked together by a weight; a bell that will chime if you move. You are _not allowed_ to move. If the bell chimes, he relaxes his leg, and removes the pressure against your clit. He stops talking. And fuck, you’re so close.

You’ve been close for an hour.

It would be easy to thrust forward, to use the slick fabric for friction and achieve a rutting, shameful orgasm that way. You would come, but you’d face the force of his disapproval. But Gods, your sanity is peeling away like autumn leaves at the last of the season, shivering on naked branches, waiting for a final breath of winter to shed them free.

 _Please_ , you think, _please_. You wish you could beg. You wish you could plead with your eyes and tears for his mercy, but he’s used the arm of his shirt to blindfold you.

The scent of him is all-encompassing, clinging to the garment. The faint citrus of the soap he washes with. The earth of the wilderness he forges. Something heady and masculine and exclusively Geralt. He’s everywhere and nowhere and you are suspended tense on his thick thigh, the tips of your toes barely brushing the floor.

“Being such a good girl.” He praises, “I know how badly you want to fuck my leg. Know you want to grind your pretty cunt sore, sweetpea, don’t you? If I let you, I don’t think you’d be able to stop.”

You have to choke back a whine because he’s right. He’s so right. If he gave you permission, you think you’d snap, feral with the tease. You think about all the times you’ve coaxed the wildness from him; pitch-eyed and animalistic with desire for you. The hard whip of his hips as he fucks you, claiming your cunt the way no other man can. The feral curl of his lip and the glint of fang. The _sounds_ he makes when he spends and fills you—

Oh, Gods. You nearly lose yourself in the thoughts, and have to take a calming breath through your nose. He notices, of course. He notices everything.

“Where did you just go, gorgeous?” He wonders, fully aware you can’t answer, “You suddenly smelt the way you do just before you’re begging to be bred full of my cock. Is _that_ what you’re thinking of? Always so hungry for it.” His thigh tightens further, and now you are completely suspended. The pressure increases. Your clit fizzes and throbs and you dig your nails so hard into your palms that you almost pierce the skin.

_Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move._

He touches your stomach, and you almost jolt forward. Now that you’re no longer touching the floor, however, the muscles of your core are engaged enough to save you. The bell doesn’t chime. He lazily strokes down, down, and you shiver as he stops just shy of your clit-hood, withdrawing.

“Definitely in need of my cock.” He decides, “And you’ve been such a pretty, poised princess, haven’t you? Oh, you can be so good, when you know there’s cum in it for you.” You hear the grin in his voice. “Sometimes I wonder if I feed you enough of it. Your pussy gets its fill, sure, but that mouth... hmm.” His breath fans hot over your earlobe. “All the places I’ve thought about fucking your smart mouth, darling.”

 _Don’t move._ Your cunt clenches against nothing, pulses angry. Your breath is high in your lungs and you feel dizzy, but you won’t yield.

“I felt that.” He rasps, “Almost made you come with the thought of it. I know you’d do it, too. One gesture and you’d be on your knees for me. Anywhere, any time. Bet you’d like to be watched, hmm, gorgeous thing?” Both of his hands go to your hips, tight. “Bet you think about it. Maybe I should let my brothers watch me claim you.”

Your fuck-strung mind is as a spider’s web strand, gossamer and fragile. He knows. Slowly, he drags your body forward, and then back. The seam of his trousers licks your cunt open and your legs start to shake. He pauses, and you feel the gag loosen and release.

“I want to hear you _scream_.” He tells you, dropping the item; you’re already panting, puffy lips wet. Everything is curling tighter and tighter, like a fern-frond withdrawing from frost-nip. The web is quivering. Every breath you exhale contains the fragments of a whimper.

“I should mention,” His voice sounds far-away, dreamlike, “Just so you know. Jaskier has been watching since I blindfolded you.”

The strand snaps.

He pulls you down into the meat of his thigh, hard, as you convulse. Your hips jerk in a mindless rhythm you cannot control as you come under his command, toyed and teased apart. Your orgasm is so violent that he has to restrain your arms, lest you injure them in your bondage, but you can’t feel anything but the supernova explosion of pleasure as your cunt trembles and squirts and twitches against his thigh. You’re screaming, you’re whispering, you’re nothing and everything; he tugs the twine free from your tits and you soar again.

He coaxes you through the cycles of your climaxing, demanding of your body. You’re obedient to his touch, trained to hear the rough growl of his voice even when you’re broken apart like this. Gradually, the waves become smaller. The heat reduces to a boil, and then a simmer, and then when you’re sobbing and aching his leg lowers to the floor. He allows you to tumble forward into his waiting chest.

“There’s my good girl,” He soothes, as you hiccup, “That was magnificent, darling. I’m so proud.” Your hands are freed with haste, and they droop bonelessly to your sides before he gathers them, probably inspecting for any damage. When he’s satisfied, you fist your fingers into his shirt and simply cling. His large arms surround you completely, and he holds you as the aftershocks tremble through you.

“You have _no idea_ how hard it was to be quiet during that.” Jaskier’s thick voice filters into your consciousness, and you giggle blearily.

“I told you she was perfect.” Geralt boasts, and you absolutely bask in his approval. “Such a treasure.” His fingers are at your scalp, running small, soothing circles. You hum your delight.

“Not the kind you’d share, am I correct?” Jaskier sighs.

“No.” Geralt agrees. He sweeps your legs up, leaning back against the bedhead. You feel a blanket against your skin. He’s removed the blindfold, but your eyes are too heavy to open. “No, she’s all mine. But every now and then, you can watch.”

The illicit suggestion has you shivering, and he pulls the covers tighter. His lips press against your temple. The last thing you remember before you give into the exhaustion tugging at your body is the bard’s good-natured protesting. Apart from that, you only know the warmth and support of your master. And you are still.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my tumblr, @inber for headcanon/general stupids. Thanks for reading!


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